Hefting the basket of laundry, Lia gripped the gladius hilt again beneath the wrap and started up the stone steps. Her leg throbbed with the effort. Doubts struck at her thoughts, but she batted them away. Having faced a kishion before, she knew that their training exceeded hers. The last time, she had been surprised and unprepared for the encounter. It had ended with her face down, drowning in a bathing tub. She grit her teeth, preparing herself for another fight. Part of her wished Kieran was there. Two against one would make it easier, but the porter door would not have opened if he had seen them both. She did not want to think about Kieran and what he was thinking about her at that moment. His expression was one of disgust when she had revealed her lackluster plan. Follow the Medium. That was all she could do.

As Lia made the loops up the stairwell, the voices grew louder. Torches hung in racks along the wall, lighting the way. At the top of the stairs, a wooden door barred the way. Lia’s hand trembled as she reached for the handle to pull it open. There was no crossbar on it and it opened to her touch. The voices became clear and so did the presence of the Medium. It fluttered in her heart powerfully, bringing tears to her eyes once again. She recognized the powerful feelings, but it felt forced and not tamed.

“You must persuade your brother to join us,” said a man’s voice. “When the kingdom falls, do you think he will be allowed to keep his earldoms if he is on the losing side? Do you think he will keep his head? Lord Dieyre has promised him amnesty in return for your willing consent to be his wife. With his authority, I offer you his plight troth and will accept yours in return. You must promise to marry him when you reach Dahomey. His affection for you is sincere. Do not doubt that.”

“I love him, but I cannot accept him,” Marciana replied. Her voice was throbbing with emotion.

“Why not?” The voice was a sneer.

“He is not a maston.”

“You have sworn to yourself that you will only marry a maston. But what a foolish oath to make to yourself, child. What will you do when there are no mastons left? Marry your brother?” The voice dripped with sarcasm. She heard an accent in the speech, and she recognized it as Dahomeyjan. “You are the price Dieyre demands. You are the only person who can save your brother’s life. Even now, he is under guard at Dochte Abbey in Dahomey. He is being treated fairly and courteously. But should you refuse this arrangement, he will be sent into the dungeons. There are serpents in the dungeons, my lady. If he were to fall asleep, he will be bitten and poisoned. Do not trifle with me, child. You must promise to marry Lord Dieyre. You must say it for it to be binding. You must agree.”

The Medium throbbed even stronger and as Lia opened the door, she heard Marciana sniffling and crying. The only light in the chamber was the light of fire. The air was thick and hot and smelled strongly of incense.

“I am thirsty,” Marciana moaned.

“Then drink some more cider,” the man replied.

“I will not drink it,” she said. “Water – just a little water.”

“Then tell me you will swear your betrothal to Lord Dieyre. I will bring you water. I will summon it fresh from a gargouelle. Cold, clean water to soothe your thirst. But you must first swear it. Or drink the cider.”

As the door opened slowly, Lia saw Marciana in a rich crimson gown with black and gold trim. There were ornaments of gold in her hair, which was loose and thick about her shoulders. The bodice of the gown was cut low in the Dahomeyjan style, similar to what Lia had seen the Queen Dowager wear. Marciana looked tortured – her eyes brim with tears. She shook her head, pacing the far side of the chamber where thick curtains blocked the sun. She crushed her fists against her forehead and sobbed, pacing, wracked with her feelings. Lia’s heart burned with anger.

The man in the room wore a black cassock. His hair was short and cropped and he had a disdainful look on his face. His eyes glowed silver as he turned and looked at Lia.

“I gave orders to leave the basket below,” he said in a sulky tone. The Medium swirled around Lia, enveloping her in ribbons made of iron. Fear exuded from the man. It made her think of Almaguer. She shuddered with terror at the feelings swarming her body. The Myriad Ones sniffed about her, so thick it felt the room was bursting with them. They swarmed around Marciana, sending their thoughts into her, willing her to bend to their will. Lia’s heart panged with compassion for Marciana. She knew what it felt like.

“I beg your pardon,” Lia mumbled, bowing her head. She skirted to the side to drop the basket near a brazier. “Would you like me to hang them to dry?” she asked with a quaver in her voice.